


End of the Road

by orphan_account



Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
Genre: Extended Metaphors, M/M, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game begins anew, and the duelists compete to install a new Rose Bride. Saionji flounders about trying to find his place in life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of the Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tzigane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/gifts).



> A messy bunch of Saionji being miserable (per request) and riding in cars (also per request, kind of). 
> 
> I'm sorry if this is a bit all over the place, first time writing for Utena and it's _so hard what_.

The wheels grind against the pavement in a mechanical hum. With one hand, Akio caresses the gear shift; with the other, he guides the wheel. With gentle pressure, he presses on the gas and the motor thrums, vibrations shuddering up into Touga (backseat this time) and Saionji (always in the backseat).

Saionji's fingers grip the leather seat.

“The Chairman's decided on the rules for this round,” Touga says. His bright hair flares behind him in the wind. He lays back in the seat casually, relaxed, fingers stroking the polished surface of the car.

“Yeah?” Saionji wishes Touga would shut up and enjoy the car ride. With leather under his fingers and night air in his lungs, talk of the End of the World almost seems out of place.

Except this is always how these things go with Akio and Touga. When the three of them were together it was always in Akio's car, in pursuit of something eternal.

“There is no Rose Bride,” Touga says.

“What?”

Touga's fingers dance along the brim of the retracted window, in and out of the car. “Or rather—We will not duel for the Rose Bride. But there are still princesses who may become Rose Brides.”

“If they are not already witches,” Akio adds.

Saionji leans into the seat and closes his eyes, letting the air wisp across his exposed skin. “So we'll duel for them?”

Akio says, “The throb of the engine feels good, doesn't it?”

Touga says, “We'll duel to find them. The worthiest of princesses. The Rose Bride.”

Akio floors the gas. The car shoots down the highway and their bodies are thrown back against the seats, wind battering them numb and senseless in the euphoria of their speed.

“Let me show you the End of the World.”

* * *

The next day, Saionji finds Shiori hanging around the perimeter of the fencing arena. She smiles at him politely. “Saionji.” Coolly. Her lack of adoration rubs him the wrong way.

“So this is the fencing club,” he says just as coolly. His nonchalance wins him the adoring screams of a thousand unimportant girls.

This important one says, “Yes. Have you come for Captain Juri?” 

“No,” Saionji says, and softens his gaze just a little as he looks upon Shiori. “I came for you.”

She meets him at the arena as agreed . They make small talk about the architecture as they enter the gondola, and she prepares him for the duel.

She gives him a sly smile as she says, “Captain Ruka brought me here before. But you'll win, won't you?”

She whisks him into his dueling garb, and by the time they reach the top, Saionji has the presence of mind to remember that she had already failed once. Was there no better? No, every uncommon girl had once been a failed Bride. Every uncommon girl....

They reach the top. Touga is already there with his sister by his side. The billowing yellow dress suits her. “Always second, Saionji.”

“Shut your mouth and draw your sword.”

With one hand on the small of Shiori's back, Saionji dips Shiori and draws the slender rapier from her breast. The moment he has it in his hand, he realizes it's all wrong. They may be tasked with finding the best Bride, but he is not the one who could show her strengths. The sword is thin in his hand. 

He bluffs his kendo stance but it has no weight. Touga knows. Touga bears down on him with his perfectly-weighted sword as Saionji parries once, parries twice—and the sword snaps clean in his hand. In an instant, Touga thrusts past his guard and scatters the petals of his rose.

“It appears Nanami and I will advance,” he says. “You'd do better with a more thoughtful choice, old friend.”

Touga grins and Saionji hates him. What other choices did he have?

Another round in which he would play the loser. “I'm done with End of the World,” he growls.

“Ah,” Touga hums, “so you've said once before.”

* * *

He thinks that night about failing in the outer world, no job, no money, and clinging to Ohtori. He thinks about quitting the duels and concentrating on his classes—for what, exactly? Nothing that mattered. Nothing that would last. He'd be less than a loser. He'd be a nobody in the crowd.

The next day Saionji sends in another challenge and asks Keiko to accompany him. Touga scatters Saionji's rose in a moment.

At the Student Council meeting, Touga gives him a condescending smile. “Until the next duel, I suppose.” 

“Concentrate on preparing for your match with Miki,” Saionji says, with more restraint than he knew he had.

Once upon a time he'd held onto the title of Rose Champion and rebuffed them all, even Touga. With Anthy at his side—empty Anthy, perfect Anthy—he had been close to seizing something eternal. Now a procession of witches passed by his side, and Touga and that annoying sister of his were untouchable.

Why did this game force him to find a suitable woman? Other people had never suited him as well as fighting alone. (That was why he was Captain of the kendo club.) For him to win, he would need another to win for him. 

What a wretched conceit. _It's not about the Duelist._ He swings his sword into the air. Again and again, in perfect swings rarely managed in the midst of battle. _Why should the Brides matter most? They're meant only to serve._

Bells ring in the distance. Saionji doesn't look forward to seeing Touga in the morning.

* * *

_If it cannot break out of its shell, the chick will die without ever being born—_

Miki is the Rose Champion.

Touga nibbles a delicate wafer as he says without distress, “Ah, I always knew she was a witch.” (Nanami is not in attendance at the Student Council Meeting today.)

“Will you make Kozue the next Rose Bride?” Juri says.

For a moment Saionji thinks about taking Juri as his Bride. Her sword must be strong and well-weighted, even if it would be a sword for fencing.

“We will reach eternity together,” Miki says.

She catches Saionji staring and looks coldly at him. He looks away. No, Juri is too much a Duelist. If she were not a Duelist, she would certainly be a witch.

Touga nibbles his wafer with a light _crisp_ sound. 

“Are you going to challenge me, Juri?” Miki says.

“When the time is right.”

Miki looks to Saionji for his answer.

“In time,” Saionji says also.

“I suppose a challenger will turn up somehow,” Miki says. “One always does.”

“Of course,” Touga says. “Relax and enjoy yourself. You never need to look for an enemy. They'll always find you.”

Touga takes the rest of the wafer into his mouth.

* * *

Touga finds Saionji staring at the roses in the garden.

“What do you want?”

Touga says, “I just wanted to have a chat with you. Am I not allowed?”

“Speak then.”

For a moment he doesn't, and they gaze at the red blooms in parallel.

“I have never had a girlfriend for long,” Touga says.

“Now that you mention it, you've never had much success, despite your admirers.”

“Mmhmm. I wonder why.” Of course, they both know why—Nanami. “Ah, it was my one shortcoming as a prince.”

“Was?” Saionji says.

“Do you remember when we first met, old friend?”

Saionji thinks back, but all he could remember was riding on bikes, the church, the coffin, their sparring, the gentle touch of Touga's hand as he wrapped a bandage around his—and nothing before all that. “No, I don't.”

“There was a girl who was drowning in a river. I came running when I heard her cries for help. When I got there, there was a boy who jumped into the river in front of me. The current was strong. Before my eyes, he was swept away.”

And Saionji had been there. He remembered the flowing river running through the heart of the city, a white bench, other people who'd gathered there—was Touga there? Was that when he'd met Touga?

“We go a long way back, old friend.”

“You're not my friend.”

“Oh? You are my friend. You have been by my side for the longest of anyone.”

Saionji didn't ask about his sister. There were more important matters at hand. “We may have been together for all these years. But not always as friends. We're not friends now. You'd rather fight me and claw your way over my dead body.”

“What a horrible thing to say.” Touga shrugged lightly. “We are Duelists. It's nothing personal.”

“You say it's not personal.”

“Do you take it personally, Saionji?”

“Don't lay it on me.”

“Ah, Saionji,” Touga sighs. “Your hate toward me is touching.”

Touga reaches forward and picks a green bloom with his long fingers. As befits a prince, the thorns never scratch him.

“Do you remember,” Touga says, “when we last fought Utena Tenjou?”

“Barely,” Saionji says.

“We were magnificent together.”

Saionji recalls losing that fight, though he doesn't want to say it, not even to contradict Touga.

“Saionji.”

“Yeah?”

“If we fight together, we can win.”

Saionji looks at the rose in Touga's fingers. “This game isn't like the one where we had last fought together.”

“No,” Touga agrees. “It will be better for you.”

He narrows his eyes at Touga. “You want to make me your Bride? Are you trying to make a fool of me?”

“Don't be so reactive. Think about it.” 

“Becoming the Rose Bride? Having no will? Serving End of the World unto eternity? No, I'm a Duelist.”

“You will be the one to truly win,” Touga says, looking at him with his sly princely eyes. “You yourself will become eternal. Every Duelist who passes through Ohtori will pass under your control.”

“And I'll spend my existence serving them. Forget it. Find some fawning girl who'll do anything for your attention.”

He storms out before Touga can fit in another conniving word.

* * *

Saionji roars down the road alone in a motorcycle. The throb of the engine shivers through his body. His hands curl around the handles as he stares down the road.

He prefers driving to places by himself.

Well, he doesn't—but at the moment he prefers to be alone.

He presses gently on the gas and enjoys the gentle tug of acceleration, the wind whipping through his hair faster and faster. 

He hates Touga Kiryuu. _Hates_ Touga Kiryuu.

When Saionji thinks about him his chest clenches furiously—him, becoming the _Rose Bride._ He hardly trusts Touga in the driver's seat, much less as his engaged. What nerve to even suggest it. He is a Duelist and every bit Touga's equal. The reverse, the idea of making Touga his Bride, had never even crossed his mind. The nerve he had to suggest it! Like winning (helping _Touga_ win, really) could be worth making his bed, mopping his floors, taking the brunt of his anger without complaint. And worse, doing the same all over again for Akio forever. Nothing's worth that, not even eternity. He'd rather die in a gutter.

To think that they'd ever been close.

His motorcycle had puttered down and lost its speed while he thought. Forget it. Forget it. He slams the brake and dejectedly sets foot on the road.

* * *

The next day, Touga visits him during kendo practice. He takes up a shinai and presumes upon the space across from Saionji.

Discipline, Saionji reminds himself. Discipline—the shinai is not for pummeling Touga's insufferable face in anger.

“Let's have a round,” Touga says.

“Fine. I hope you're ready to lose.”

Saionji takes the initiative and darts in with sword horizontal. Touga parries and they press their swords until the blades point at the ceiling and their elbows almost touch. Saionji's arms tremble as he forces Touga's blade away with all his might, diving in for a quick thrust before he can recover.

His shinai meets Touga's chest.

“Your win, hm?”

“Yeah.” Saionji lowers his shinai. What an unsatisfyingly brief bout. He half wondered if Touga had thrown it. Trying not to sound too hostile, he says, “What did you come here for?”

“I don't think I properly expressed myself yesterday. Our relationship is important to me.”

“That's why you're going to use me as your footstool,” Saionji snaps. So much for not sounding hostile. “If you want me to fight with you, why don't you play the Bride?”

“Oh, I was a Bride once,” Touga says airily. “It didn't suit me.”

Saionji has no idea what he means by that, but he doesn't have the patience for Touga's secrets today. “It doesn't suit me either. Look elsewhere for your Bride.”

Touga sighs with his whole body, letting his back relax, as if letting his entire act fall apart. “Will you continue to play the game? I ask you as a friend, Saionji. Lately you've seemed out of place.”

“Maybe I won't,” he says. “It seems to me that End of the World's strung us along long enough. Is there even anything eternal for us to win?”

“Who knows. It seems End of the World hasn't seen it himself.”

But Touga would try anyway, Saionji senses. Touga's always won just enough to keep victory within reach. 

And Saionji—he wonders to himself why he keeps baiting himself with could-bes. The prize of something eternal, he thinks now, would never be his. (He tries not to think about why.) End of the World had turned him into a donkey trailing after a carrot.

Thinking about it, he made a fool of himself by playing the game at all.

“I'm finished here,” Saionji declares.

“You've said that twice now,” Touga hums. “But I wish you best of luck.”

* * *

It has been raining for three days now in intermittent drizzles. The road is lined with four-inch trenches of water between the curb and the pavement. Saionji realizes upon stepping onto the sidewalk that he's forgotten his umbrella, but he doesn't have the time to go back for it now. 

Shielding his eyes with one hand, he jogs down the street, turns a corner, keeps up his momentum to cross the quiet intersections in his way. Water splashes up onto his dress pants and his messenger bag bangs uncomfortably against his thigh, but he doesn't have a choice. It's because of his alarm clock. It's his alarm clock's fault. He had it on snooze but he swore it never went off again after the first time.

He reaches the bus stop panting and catches his breath. Somehow, things in his life always manage to go wrong. This is the third time he'll be late to work—and he's in no position to lose the only job he's found in all the three months since he left Ohtori. He still has a pile of loans for the expenses from his first month alone and unemployed. 

By the time Saionji has caught his breath (about two minutes—he's out of shape from daily deskwork, too much cup ramen, and no kendo) the bus still hasn't arrived and he regrets making a mess of his pants for nothing. Thoroughly wet by the rain, his hair sticks to his face.

When the city bus finally comes (in five minutes), he swipes his fare card and squeezes himself a space near a hanging handle, in between a woman with a giant ass and a businessman who looks disgusted when Saionji's wet pant leg touches his by accident. He sees the time on the display at the front of the bus and lets out a weary sigh—he knows he'll be late for work. There's no helping it now. The bus takes thirty minutes at least to reach his stop, and he's expected in seventeen.

When the bus finally reaches his stop, he works his way out toward the exit and doesn't bother running to the office. The drizzle has let up for the moment. Late is late. He's already late. No sense getting more mud on his clothes.

Saionji arrives at the office twenty minutes late, swipes his ID and yanks open the doors, makes the long trek to his center, and finally lets all of his weight fall onto the only old creaky desk chair he could find. All around him, his colleagues who had come on time swiveled about in their marginally better desk chairs, busily answering phones with false honeyed voices. His hair is uncomfortably warm and wet against his scalp, his feet and legs are damp and cold, and he hates his job.

He presses the computer's power switch and sets up his workspace as he waits, adjusting the headset and placing the messenger bag against a table support. He thinks to himself that even his lunch might be soggy by now. On most days he'd take a quick restroom break while the computer took its sweet time loading, but today Saionji is just too tired. He wastes time staring at the messenger bag, thinking about how bored he is with rice and pickled daikon. 

The log-in screen appears. He types in his credentials, waits for it to catch up, opens a browser, waits for it to catch up, and clocks in for work, officially thirty-seven minutes late. 

He sets himself as Available and waits for the first whiner to call.

“Hello, thank you for calling Paperbuddy. How may I help you today?”

The first lady wants to know why her second-hand black pen writes blue after refilling with blue ink. The second guy just wants to know how long the pens will last. The third wants a replacement for one that stopped writing after an hour. The fourth guy had important documents stained by a malfunctioning pen in an unfortunate series of events and wants compensation. The next woman's baby got ahold of one and ate the ink and she wants to know if the baby is going to die.

He's midway through a call (apparently the caps are horribly designed and lose themselves—Saionji wouldn't know, he's never used them) when a manager leans on his cubicle wall. When he finishes the call, he takes off the headset and the manager says, “Mr. Saionji?” 

“Yes sir?” Saionji says without reverence in his voice.

“The floor supervisor would like to speak with you.”

“Yes sir,” Saionji echoes, wishing he didn't look like shit. Or, well, maybe it'll make them have some sympathy for him. He had done his best to arrive on time, and he'd suffered enough for his mistake.

He flags himself in the system as taking a break. With shoes squelching with water, he made his way to the managers' offices and looked about for the floor supervisor's. Coming to think of it, he hadn't yet met the floor supervisor in person. All he knew was that a woman had recently taken the position. (A woman firing him? How absurd.)

He finds the office of Floor Supervisor Aiko Chou. Butterfly beloved child, what a ridiculously romantic name. He knocks, and a strangely familiar voice says, “Come in.”

He opens the door. Anthy Himemiya is behind the desk.

“Why don't you have a seat, Mr. Saionji?” she says sweetly with her eternal poker-faced smile. No glasses. She must've gotten contacts.

 _Why are you here? Why are you my floor supervisor? Who the hell put you there?_ Saionji sits down on the other side of the desk. 

Anthy-called-Aiko fingers the edges of a legal pad on the desk ( _her_ desk, she's a _supervisor_?) as she starts to say, “I'm a little concerned, Mr. Saionji.” 

“I'm sorry for being late,” he manages.

“We're simply concerned that it might be part of a pattern. We take punctuality seriously, and it appears you've been late five days of the last thirty-eight you've worked here.”

“Five?” Saionji echoes incredulously.

“Mmhmm—let me see... the fourth of last month, the sixteenth, the first of this month, the sixth, and today.”

“The sixteenth?”

“Ah, by seven minutes. Still, your shift does begin on the hour.”

“I was here on time!” he protests. “It took the computer eight minutes to get to the clock-in page!”

“Your work starts after you clock in,” she says, still smiling. “Please make time for getting settled. We've been very tolerant on this floor, but as you know, the company does have a three-strikes policy. It is well within our rights to terminate you as it is.”

“That's bullshit!” Saionji stands up abruptly, his chair screeching behind him. He knows he's being rash, he knows with everything she'd said he would've been allowed to stay on by a thread, _he doesn't care_. Anthy Himemiya, threatening him. There could be nothing more wrong in the world. “I spend more than seven minutes each day finishing calls that pass into break time. And missing seven minutes in the morning is enough of a reason to fire me?”

“Oh my, Mr. Saionji,” Anthy says unflappably. “Let's settle this peacefully, shall we?”

“This was never peaceful!” he rages. “Have you been listening to what you're saying? How can anyone tolerate this?” Saionji shoves her legal pad off the desk, where it falls onto the floor with pages flopping to either side.

Anthy tilts her head and gazes at him measuredly. 

“Will you strike me, Saionji?”

Was that a challenge? What, from _her_? Saionji stares at her insufferable face, her always-pretty features well matched with her long curling hair, her green eyes with no glasses to block them. If he slaps her with contacts in, they could harm her eyes permanently. He's tempted. 

“Well, whether you do or don't,” she then says, “you are no longer an employee of Paperbuddy. Have a nice day, Mr. Saionji.”

If it were all the same anyway, he wanted to slap her one more time—and yet instead he pounds the desk one last time before he turns around in his pathetically squeaking soggy shoes and muddy pants, leaves the office, and slams the door behind him.

* * *

The motorcycle roars smoothly down the road.

“Welcome back,” Touga says.

“I don't need to hear that from you,” Saionji grumbles, arms curled around his legs in the too-small passenger car.

“Miki is still the Rose Champion.”

“Don't talk about that upstart freshman right now.”

“Well then, how have you been, old friend?”

“Shut up and keep your eyes on the road.”

Touga humors him, driving steadily but recklessly down the lonely road. As he always did.

Someday, Saionji thinks, he's going to have a horrible accident. They have not and may never win eternity. For all the love lost between them, there was still something left to lose. And then what? He'd stop being second to Touga and instead vanish into the world?

Until then, Saionji remains in Touga's passenger car with the lay of the road jittering up through his feet, feeling Touga gun the gas, release the gas, gun, release, in that strange way that amused him.

“That's going to kill you someday.”

“Maybe,” Touga says, gunning the gas.


End file.
